A/N: Many thanks to Ilurvesfewd for the dA comments on earlier chapters of this fic; they pretty much directly inspired the entire first scene in this one.

Trigger Warning: The final section of this chapter includes an alternate depiction of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in Manhattan. I went back and forth about whether to warn about this as I didn't want to spoil any part of this story. Since this was a real historical event that I'm using as a catalyst for this fic, however, I wanted to throw it out there so readers who might find it upsetting to read would be on notice. If you find references to 9/11 specifically triggering, please take care while reading this chapter.

Chapter 006

They sped past buildings, each blending into the one right next to it, a coalesced iridescent blur of corporate steel and reinforced glass. Roxas looked on with interest, out the back passenger side window of the taxicab he and his father were riding in. Beside him, his dad's head was down, eyes fixed on the Blackberry phone he used for work, fingers typing over the device's raised keyboard at breakneck speed. The man had been home working remotely all day, had agreed to watch Roxas while his wife subbed in as the teacher for an evening dance class. He hadn't anticipated the home printer running out of ink on the one day he actually needed it for work.

Although tired after a long day at school, Roxas was nevertheless eager to be taking the trip to his father's office in Manhattan's Financial District.

That made one of them, if his father's tired expression was any indication.

Roxas hardly noticed his dad's grim look. He was just happy to be out of the house, excited to be taking even a short little trip. His dad was usually so busy, coming home every day around the time he had to go to bed, sometimes much later than even that. It was a rare occasion when he got to see his father on a weekday. This was something that Roxas planned on enjoying to the fullest extent.

"Sorry to drag you along today, buddy," his father said. "It'd have been nice if your mother…" The man stopped mid-sentence, didn't finish, instead exhaling a heavy, frustrated sounding breath.

Roxas turned away from the cab's window, looked up at his father, unable to completely conceal the enthusiasm he was feeling. "It's okay," he said, trying rather unsuccessfully to copy his father's more somber expression. "I don't mind."

As the cab turned onto the street where his father's law firm was located, the man offered Roxas a small smile, reached out a hand and ruffled his son's mess of blond hair. "You're a good kid, you know that?"

Dropping his solemn expression in an instant, Roxas offered his father a wide grin, showing off the empty space where his front two adult teeth hadn't yet grown in. "I know that, yep!"

Chuckling a little as they pulled up to the drop-off area, Roxas watched his father pay the driver, open the door, and step out of the cab. He was quick to follow, scooting across the back seat so he could get out on the side of the car facing the pedestrian walk and avoid oncoming street traffic, just like he'd been taught.

His dad held out his arm, Roxas gleefully sliding his small hand into the man's palm as they made their way toward the door that led into the building's front lobby, trying not to bounce with every step. Suppressing the inclination was a concerted effort. Skipping, as his father had often reminded him with a lecturing tone, was an activity reserved for little girls, not to be performed by any son of his. Roxas let himself be led up to the front desk clerk, gait as subdued as he could make it, and watched as his father pulled out his identification card. The clerk scanned the ID, then looked down at Roxas and shot him a smile before clearing the pair and nodding toward the next available elevator.

By the time they arrived on the building's forty-second floor, Roxas was smiling openly, feeling elated. He'd gotten to press not only the elevator button for his dad's floor but two others for people who'd entered the lift along with them. Now he'd get to look out the window in his dad's office, down at the entire city, maybe even sit beside him at his desk while he worked and pretend to be helping on an important case.

It was late in the afternoon, but the office was still bustling with a melange of workers, some of whom his father greeted, while others he walked past without a second glance. Walking by his side, Roxas made a quick game out of identifying the various people, from the respected junior and senior partners, the firm's many paralegals and partner-assigned secretaries, to a group of harried looking first year associates.

The familiar hallway where his father's office was located came into view. Roxas picked up his pace, moving up alongside his father, still holding his hand. The secretary's desk immediately in front of the office door was currently unoccupied. Roxas glanced at the photos that lined the interior of the desk with interest while his father paused to locate his office key. Photos were unnecessary clutter his father preferred to keep off his own workspace. Hand released a moment later, door opening inward, Roxas was free to enter the office. He made a beeline over to the floor-to-ceiling window, eagerly anticipating his first look down onto the world below.

"Hands off, please, Roxas," his father said, tone stern and effectively halting the trajectory of the boy's fingers as they hovered mere inches from the window's glossy interior.

Roxas smiled his father's way, inclined his head in apology, then stuffed his fists into his pants pockets so he couldn't forget his father's warning. He leaned forward, craning his neck to see straight down outside, observing the people milling around on the sidewalks below. He was so far above them, the pedestrians appeared as nothing larger than scurrying specs, a starburst of endless colors moving with unknown purpose below.

"I didn't expect to see you in the office today, sir."

Roxas looked up at the sound of a feminine voice. His gaze came to rest on his father's secretary standing by the office entranceway. Their eyes met at about the same time, and she offered him a warm smile.

At his desk, his father stood. "I need to have some copies made of the discovery material for the McLaren case," he said. Roxas watched as he pulled a brown file folder out of his briefcase and held it out to the woman.

She inclined her head, approached his desk, and took the folder off his hands. "Of course. I'll take care of it right away." As she passed near Roxas on her return to the door, the woman slowed to a stop, reaching out to smooth down blond spikes of his mussed-up hair. Without a word, she also slid a hand into the pocket of her skirt, emerging with a small peppermint candy, which she deposited into the boy's outstretched palm. "I'll be back in a moment," she called over her shoulder and, receiving no further instructions from his father as he settled down at his desk, the woman took her leave.

Roxas turned back to the window, twisting the candy wrapper taut on both sides, until it released the peppermint from its confines. He popped the ball of solid sugary sweetness into his mouth, rolling it experimentally around his tongue, crinkled the wrapper between two fingers, then turned his attention back to the window.

There were more people on the sidewalks now, probably the result of it nearing the end of the standard workday. Roxas observed with rapt attention, eyes trying to discern individual features of the select few they'd chosen to trail along after. Hayner would have been so bored having to come here after school, Roxas thought, noting the cold minty feel of air at the back of his throat every time he inhaled. Where Hayner was obsessed with sports, it was people and their personal stories that interested Roxas most, even if they were just made up, facets of his youthful imagination.

He heard the office door open again, glanced at the returning secretary out of the corner of his eye. She made her way back over toward his father, depositing a small pile of paper on one corner of his desk before placing a delivery box and a few letters directly adjacent to them. "Is there anything else you need?" Roxas heard her ask.

Intent on the paperwork in front of him, Roxas' father didn't look up, just shook his head. "Thank you, no. Have a nice evening. You're free to go."

She left a moment later, waving good-bye to Roxas who copied the motion, candy wrapper crinkling in his free hand as he crunched down on the thin sphere of sugar that remained undissolved in his mouth. His father was reaching for the package, using a letter opener to slice through the masking tape. To Roxas, the instrument had always looked like a small medieval sword, and he'd had to exert considerable self-control not to pick it up and play with it on each successive visit. His father didn't take kindly to his belongings being treated as toys, or to Roxas acting much like a child himself, for that matter.

Still, Roxas made his way over to his father's desk, pulling up along one side to watch with mute curiosity as his father continued to open the package he'd just received.

Noting his son's attention out of the corner of one eye, the man turned, a slight and subtle movement that offered Roxas a better view of the item that had been enclosed within.

"A wallet?" Roxas asked, brows furrowing as his father nodded in confirmation.

"But…" The boy tilted his head, trying to make sense of it. "…you already have one of those."

His father shrugged, removed the flap of expensive leather from its encasing. "I decided to buy a new one."

Reaching into his pocket, the man placed his old wallet onto the desk and began removing a handful of credit and business cards, as well as a few bills of money from its worn interior. Roxas watched, for a moment simply taking in the transferring process with wordless interest as he got up the nerve to speak again. Sometimes his father found his questions tiresome, at times even snapped at him if he was in an irritable enough mood. It was always a good idea to try to gauge his current disposition before speaking. When Roxas guessed wrong — well, those were times he'd much rather just forget.

It was his mamma who came to his defense when his father got unnecessarily snappish in her presence. "Isn't the mark of a good attorney to investigate every uncertainty?" she'd pointed out to her husband once, as Roxas had listened to the exchange from a nearby hiding place, holding his breath and waiting to see if he might be the reason they started fighting again. "He's just taking after his father," she'd continued, tone biting. "I'd have thought you'd be proud."

"What are you going to do with that one?" Roxas finally decided to risk asking. He pointed an index finger at the wallet he was so familiar seeing his father walking around holding.

The man looked up, regarded his son with scrutinizing eyes. "It's old and falling apart. I was planning to throw it out."

Roxas opened his mouth as if to speak again but found himself suddenly reticent, rendered silent under the intensity of his father's gaze.

Another quiet moment passed as his father returned his attention to the task at hand and finished organizing his belongings into his new wallet. Roxas fidgeted slightly but said nothing further, the tips of his fingers pressing against the edge of his father's desk.

"Roxas."

The boy looked up, met his father's steady gaze with a shy look of his own. One of his father's hands had moved toward the old wallet, was sliding it closer until it came to a rest between the two of them on the smooth mahogany surface of his desk.

"Would you like to have it?"

Roxas' eyes dropped to the wallet, visible interest shining in them before he looked back up at his father and nodded.

"Yes, sir," he said. Then, remembering his dad's preferences when it came to manners, he added a polite "please" to the end of his response.

"Take it, then." His father nodded his assent, reaching toward his new wallet and removing some of the money he'd just organized into it. He flipped through a handful of dollar bills, choosing three singles and placing them on top of his old billfold. "Something for you to put in it," he said, a moment before a knocking sound drew his attention away from his son and back toward the office door.

Roxas hardly noticed as his father stood, eyes still trained on his new possession, his smile so wide it was starting to make his cheeks ache. Vaguely, he heard his father tell him to take the seat he'd just risen from before making his way to the door. Roxas was quick to comply, first sitting, then pulling the rolling chair inward, hands gripping the ledge of his father's desk as a support.

His dad opened the door. For a moment, Roxas' focus was directed toward the office entrance as he identified one of his father's bosses, a man who his dad called an equity partner. This was a position his father coveted, the reason he worked such long hours. Roxas remembered so many conversations between his parents about his father's goal of becoming one of them, even if he didn't understand what made a junior partner so much less desirable than someone who was an equity senior. They were just words to him, titles that mattered to his father but very little as yet to his young son. Given her often sardonic comments about how money wasn't everything, Roxas thought it was safe to assume that his mamma cared very little for such lofty goals as well.

Roxas was only half-listening to the conversation taking place nearby as he reached for the wallet and money his father had given him. He heard things like "How are the associates doing on the McLaren discovery?", "the amicus deadline for that civil rights federal filing is next Tuesday", and "are you still giving the San Francisco offer some serious consideration?" — all without bothering to figure out what any of it might mean, or keeping track of how his dad had chosen to reply. One day, Roxas hoped, he would be a lawyer too, just like his father. As a result, he usually listened in and paid more attention to new terminology, committed it to memory so he could ask his father later what specific terms meant. Today, he was too caught up with his new acquisition, simply happy to investigate the wallet's finer details as he rotated the worn square of leather between both hands.

He picked up the dollar bills, flipped open the wallet at its fold. The line was faded a shade lighter than the rest of the leather, a result of age and repeated use. Slowly, reverently, he opened the billfold, began to slide the dollars into it. Three-thirds of the way down, they met an obstruction, something that wouldn't allow them to go further. Fingers delving between two thin swatches of fabric, Roxas pulled the offending item up and out just as his father finished his conversation and turned to head back toward his desk.

"Daddy," Roxas spoke up, "you forgot this." He held the photo out toward his father, a memento from a recent vacation, taken by a tourist of all three family members at his mamma's request. The Atlantic shore in the background sparkling a silvery sheen of off-white, the photo had captured Roxas squinting in an attempt to block out the offending light, a permanent reminder of how warm and sunny their day at the beach had been.

For a moment, his father just studied it, eyes traveling from his son, then back to the offering in his hand. He smiled at Roxas, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. Roxas noted the look, but said nothing. After a long day of work, it wasn't unusual for his father to be tired.

When the man finally did speak, the words came out sounding at the same time overly convivial and noticeably strained. "That's okay, buddy," his father said, waving his son off as he returned his attention back to the pile of paperwork on his desk. "You go ahead and keep it." Then, spoken softly, almost as if he was talking to himself, "...take it out once in awhile if you need a reminder of our time together."

"Do you ever get tired?" Axel asked.

Roxas looked up, away from the half-finished meal on his plate, and took a moment to consider the question. With thoughts on school, work, his mother, and a whole host of other social obligations, the answer seemed rather straightforward. "Well, yeah," he replied honestly, "I'm pretty much always tired lately."

The response didn't seem to satisfy Axel. "With all of this, I mean. This time. This place." The man spread a hand toward a nearby window, fingers splayed outward as he swept his arm across the horizontal plane of Roxas' sightline.

This time?

Roxas quirked his head, trying to understand what Axel was getting at.

What place?

"New York? I think it's the best city ever, actually."

For a moment, Axel simply regarded him, an unreadable look passing over his face. When he finally responded, his voice was quiet, reflective.

"Ever? But that's such a remarkably long span of time…"

September 11, 2012

After dinner, they took a walk, side by side in the fading Manhattan twilight. Apart from the general aches associated with his forming illness, Roxas couldn't have asked for a better distraction. As he became more comfortable in Axel's presence, Roxas found himself actually even enjoying himself. Finally relaxing for the first time that day.

In bed, Roxas shifted, eyes opening for a mere instant. Something had woken him, something he should be addressing. It was something nearby, insistently pulsing.

His eyelids felt heavy, his head so impenetrably cloudy.

The events of the evening before came back to him in only partially intelligible flashes of recollection.

An arm around his shoulder, easy smalltalk, exchanged glances of fledgling attraction.

"There's no chance of seeing you tomorrow?" Axel asked, squeezing the shoulder beneath his arm, a tender, lingering action that made Roxas' heart feel like it was jumping up into his throat.

He shook his head, made an apologetic face. "I have to go in to work. And I have classes all afternoon and evening."

For a moment, Axel's grip seemed to tighten across his shoulders. Roxas looked up, noted a similarly tense expression pass across Axel's face that was gone as quickly as it'd initially formed. If not for the extra few second's delay in relaxing his arm, Roxas might have let himself believe he'd imagined the subtle change of mood entirely in the first place.

The buzzing sensation came to him again. This time, Roxas was able to pinpoint its general location.

He unearthed his phone from beneath a pillow, now realizing the muffled tickling feeling had been its dogged vibration against the side of his face.

He just had the chance to read the caller ID, to realize that it was Pence, before the feeling of overpowering exhaustion started to overtake his senses again.

"I thought you'd said you were working today, actually," Axel returned, tone light, conversational once more.

"Yeah," Roxas said. "I was supposed to but I had something come up." When Axel didn't immediately respond, Roxas found himself automatically supplementing. "Just a family problem... issue... kinda …thing." The last word was mumbled, very nearly inaudible.

Axel made a sound of acknowledgement as they turned the corner onto the street where Roxas lived. They walked in silence until a block before his apartment's front entrance.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Axel asked finally.

"No." Now it was Roxas' turn to stiffen beneath the weight of Axel's arm. It took a genuine effort not to shrug him off completely. Before he could stop himself, he shot Axel a dark look.

Why couldn't anyone have the good grace to leave him the fuck alone when he was feeling like this? Eyes opening again at the phone's emphatic vibrations, Roxas couldn't tell if he was directing the silent inquiry at the exchange that had taken place last night or more to the current disturbance, at Pence.

And why the hell was he having such a hard time staying awake? He pushed himself up to sitting, elbows shaking, arm muscles protesting. The familiar shapes in his room blurred momentarily out of focus. It felt, quite honestly, like he was flat-out drunk.

Okay, fine. Whatever. Except he hadn't had anything to drink last night stronger than a glass of ice water.

Body trembling with the exertion of simply sitting up, Roxas rested his elbows on his knees, buried his knuckles into the sockets of his eyes, as he tried his best to ground himself.

Axel slowed their pace until they both came to a stop, sliding his arm off Roxas' shoulders, allowing it to return to the jeans pocket at his side. Even though there was no anger in his expression, Roxas found himself looking down, studying the scuffed white of the checkerboard on his tennis shoes, feeling chagrin at his minor outburst.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice strained, low. "I've just had a crappy last couple of days. Meeting you excepted," he was quick to add, looking up, face coloring with a flush of embarrassment at the near-insult. Axel merely offered a small, encouraging smile. "Plus," he forged on, "I'm behind on school stuff, have to keep up with work, and to top it all off, I think I'm coming down with a head-cold just when—"

This was more than a head cold. This was…like an entire bottle of 100-proof vodka, chased with half a dozen sleeping pills. What the…what the actual fuck?

He was cut off mid-sentence as, in one smooth movement, Axel stepped forward, leaned down, and kissed him. And then, before Roxas could do anything other than stand rigid with shock, Axel offered him another, this one lasting longer, far bolder in its delivery.

The phone brought him out of his half-dazed reverie as it began vibrating again. Slowly, Roxas lifted his head, reached for it. His movements were sluggish, clumsy. It took him two tries before he was able to accept the call.

"Roxas? Finally! Geez, we were getting worried."

Roxas listened, only half processing Pence's words as his friend continued to ramble on.

"Is everything okay? Are you…alright?"

Roxas tried to speak, found his tongue too dry to utter an audible word at first. He cleared his throat, had the sense to feel a prickling of irritation at his current state of apparent inebriation, before finally responding. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said, tone taking on a hint of the frustration he was feeling. "Why wouldn't I be?"

There was a pause on Pence's side of the line.

"Well, for one," Pence said, voice far more hesitant than it had been a few seconds prior, "you're pretty darn late for your shift."

Reeling from surprise, Roxas pulled away, eyes darting back and forth around the two of them, still not used to the idea of public displays of affection or such an outward declaration of his gendered attractions. Axel watched, eyes cat-like, as though trying to gauge the meaning behind Roxas' reaction.

"My…shift?" Roxas blinked rapidly, trying to force away the drowsy feeling that was still persisting despite his best efforts.

"You told Hayner you'd be here this morning. You texted yesterday…" Pence trailed off, apparently unsure what more to say.

"Yeah," Roxas sighed. "I remember."

Something just wasn't adding up for him though and in his current state, he was having a hell of a time putting his finger on it with any level of acuity.

Finally, it came to him.

"Wait, why are you calling to talk to me about work anyway?"

"Because these two saps wanted to make sure you were okay and keep us company," Hayner's voice cut in, followed by a sarcastic "surprise, bud! You're on speakerphone."

"We also thought we could take you out to lunch afterward since we all have the afternoon free," Roxas heard Olette chime in with her usual upbeat tone.

"Which we can't do if you don't actually show up and work the shift you got scheduled for." Hayner's voice held a note of irritation.

Glancing over at his digital clock, seeing it was already nearly eight, Roxas realized his friend was probably in the midst of the typical hellish morning coffee rush.

"I'm sorry," Roxas said. "I... have no idea how I managed to oversleep." Especially considering how many times Pence had been trying to call over the last few hours.

Trying to compose himself, still not sure exactly where to look, Roxas ran a hand through the top layer of his hair while he struggled to find adequate words. "I was just telling you how I think I might be getting sick," he spluttered, completely caught off-guard, "and then you go and — and kiss me." Even as he spoke, Roxas couldn't suppress the note of longing in his voice at the last two words.

Simply watching, saying nothing, Axel's lips upturned into… Roxas stared. Was that a …smirk?

"It's cool. I'm obviously covering your lazy ass," Hayner said, this time in a much milder tone. "Pence and Olette are helping, and I'm not gonna tell the manager. Just get here as soon as possible so no one finds out."

The call dropped, leaving Roxas in the silence of his room. Vaguely, he noted the score of phone notifications he'd missed while he was out cold: four calls from Pence, a few of Hayner's texts. Even a voicemail from his farfar.

Sighing, Roxas stood, swaying off-balance for the first few seconds as he tried to steady himself. His head ached in protest at the sudden movement, vision warped, then threw itself back into focus at a dizzying rate.

In a matter of seconds, they were kissing again, this time Roxas a more willing participant, lips slightly parted, chest fluttering, face quickly turning flush with the sheer fervency of it.

Groaning, trying to force the distracting imagery away from his immediate thoughts, Roxas began shuffling around his room, hurrying to get dressed and prepped to leave.

He dug through his clothing, only to discover he had no clean work shirts since - oh, right - he still hadn't had a chance to do laundry. Just fucking great.

Axel broke away, ending the contact far too soon for Roxas' liking. It was all he could do to stifle the frustrated whine inching its way up from the back of this throat. For a moment longer, Axel remained, face hovering by Roxas' right ear. When he next spoke, Roxas could easily imagine the smug smile still playing across the man's lips.

It was official: Between work and a huge block of afternoon and evening classes, this was going to be the longest, most trying day in goddamn history.

"What can I say? I enjoy the occasional risk," Axel said, voice a sensual, lilting whisper. "I guess I just decided to take my chances."

o - o

By the time Roxas left, it was already past eight. Instead of making a beeline for the nearest metro station and following his usual route, he made the calculated decision to hail a cab, willing to eat the additional cost in the hope that above ground transport might be faster. At the very least, it didn't require multiple transfers.

As he settled in for the ride, Roxas pulled out his phone, determined to at least clear his notifications. He flipped through the texts from Hayner first. They were just related to his no-show at the cafe this morning. Nothing new. Not anything important. Then there were the voicemails. The first three were from Pence before he'd managed to catch his fourth call. Roxas deleted each one without listening. The final message was from his grandfather, had come in sometime later in the evening before he'd remember to switch his phone from do not disturb mode back to vibrate.

As Roxas lifted the phone up to his ear, the cab turned a corner, then slowed nearly to a stop. The way in front of them seemed pretty heavily blocked.

Fuck. Between his shitty health and rush hour traffic, there was just no catching a break today.

"Please call me back when you get this, min son," Roxas heard his grandfather say over the line. "The hospital says you missed your appointment yesterday..."

Wait, what?

"I know this is a hard for you," the recorded voice continued, "but I think we need to have a talk."

As the message ended, Roxas felt his shoulders tense. He forced himself to play the words back in his head, searching for any possible alternate meaning. Missed his appointment? Like hell. That goddamn hospital and its inability to keep track of everything from visitor check-ins to their own doctors' identities and schedules. Now their disorganization was likely to end him up in hot water with his farfar.

He so didn't need this right now.

Looking up, noting they still were hardly moving, Roxas exhaled a frustrated breath he'd hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "Is there any other route you could take?" he asked the driver. "Maybe across Liberty Street instead?"

As he spoke, Roxas kept his hands busy pulling up the hospital's number from his phone's contact list.

"I can try," the driver said, flipping on his turn signal and craning his neck to see if there was a way to get over to the far right lane. "But it could be just as busy. It is still rush hour."

Pursing his lips, Roxas flicked the call button on his phone, didn't respond further to the cabbie in front of him. Glancing at the clock readout on the taxi's display, he saw with increasing anxiety that it was already past eight-thirty.

If he didn't end up losing his job from this, it was going to be a goddamn miracle. And he was going to owe Hayner so hard for covering him, he might never hear the end of it.

Finding an opening in the line of vehicular traffic, the cab turned onto Liberty. To Roxas' extreme relief, traffic seemed to be moving a little better on this street than the last.

He rushed through the hospital's automated recording choices, fingers jabbing at numbered options before the list had even been fully read off, then waited for the sound of the system's usual telltale ringing.

"Good morning, long-term care unit," a male voice greeted him through the line.

"I think the hospital made a mistake about my visit yesterday," Roxas said, not bothering with a standard greeting. "Is it possible to verify an appointment check-in?"

At the man's request, Roxas provided the requisite information — his name, his mother's room number, and the time he had been scheduled to meet with Dr. Havartin. He was put on hold while the receptionist searched the hospital computer system for confirmation of his presence.

"Looks like this route has heavy traffic as well," the cabbie called over one shoulder. "We're close enough that it might be quicker to get out and walk."

Agh.

With a curt nod, Roxas glanced at the fare calculator, then pulled out his wallet and passed some money to the driver. "Keep the change," he said as he hopped out of the backseat, slammed the door, and made his way to the closest sidewalk.

The phone crackled a little, a brief static disturbance as the man came back onto the line. "Our records are reflecting the appointment as a no-show, sir. Would you like to reschedule?"

"I checked in at the front desk yesterday," Roxas replied, voice taking on a hard edge. How the hell hard was it to match up their electronic records with a signature on a dinky sheet of paper?

"Sometimes these things aren't input into our system properly. My apologies, sir," the receptionist said, sounding properly conciliatory. It served as a reminder to Roxas that there was really no use losing his calm with someone who'd played no role in causing the error in the first place. Half-tempted to ask about Dr. Crescent again, Roxas ultimately decided to focus on the most pressing matter at hand. If they didn't have a record of him visiting yesterday, it probably wasn't going to help him much to ask about anything else from his phantom visit. Or anyone else, for that matter.

As Roxas began to make his way through a crowd of pedestrians, weaving his way the few blocks that remained between his current location and WTC 2, Roxas paused with a sizable number of other people at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. The receptionist continued to speak.

"Don't worry," he said. "This isn't something you'd be charged for."

Good. Because it's not like he could really afford much more at this point. He'd just been lucky that his mother's insurance had covered most of her medical expenses, that anything above and beyond had been taken care of by an outpouring of fundraising support from New York's professional dance community. It's not like his father had offered to help in any way.

"Okay. Is there any way to reschedule for some other time this week?" he asked, determined to get this mess straightened out. This time he wouldn't hesitate, he told himself. He'd sign the damn paperwork, just like he'd promised, say his good-byes. Officially move on.

"I'll check." Roxas listened to the sound of rapid typing, rhythmic and staccato, across the line. "It looks like he has time available tomorrow afternoon at three, if that'd work for you," the man said.

Roxas actually had class at three, the same as on Monday. At this point, it hardly mattered though. He could probably get his old counselor to write the professor a note if it ultimately came down to that.

After all, if he really followed through tomorrow as he'd intended, it wasn't like he'd have a reason to miss any other classes for the rest of the semester.

"Yeah, that's fine. Please put me down for that. And," he continued, figuring the sentiment couldn't hurt, "please tell Dr. Havartin I'm sorry for the mix-up."

You know, just in case he actually was losing his mind and really hadn't shown up, he thought. Good old Sorenson cynicism. It was a gift as much as a curse.

A flash of pink caught his attention, seen out of the corner of one eye, right as the crosswalk light turned green. As Roxas followed the current of pedestrian traffic, he craned his neck, spotted the familiar shade of hair again. He blinked, trying to focus his bleary eyes a little better as much as make an attempt to remember where he'd seen it before.

It came to him a few seconds later.

Oh, right. Demyx. Drinks. Dancing at Vessel.

Well, how about that?

The man was walking briskly, matching the flow of pedestrians around him, head down, typing on what Roxas could only assume was a smartphone. Picking up his pace as much as was possible in the current crush of walkers, Roxas found himself following the distinctive pink hair until the guy turned a corner in the opposite direction Roxas was headed and disappeared out of sight.

Okay, that had been totally pointless. And the man's appearance, annoyingly enough, had simply served as a reminder of Demyx, that there was more than one person from the last few days he probably wasn't going to get the chance to see again.

It'd just be a heck of a lot easier to curb his irritation in favor of focusing on his planned destination if there weren't so many people blocking his way. Every time he encountered an impasse, Roxas found himself looking down at his phone, continually gauging the time.

8:42 am. Four blocks left.

8:44. Three blocks. This was getting ridiculous.

8:45. Two and a half.

Thirty seconds passed with Roxas still struggling through the Lower Manhattan crowds, fighting the temptation to check his phone another time yet again.

Another half a minute.

And then...

A flash of fireball orange lit up the sky overhead, followed by a sound so deafening everything around him went dead silent. Nearby, pedestrians covered their ears, mouths open in wordless expressions of surprise. Roxas stared directly at the source of the disturbance, head protesting, completely disoriented. A beat later, Roxas realized some people around him seemed to be crying out. He just couldn't hear anything, could only stare at the spectacle, eyes wide, body rigid with shock. He took in a shuddering breath and felt pain at the side of his head, as a high-pitched sound began to develop in his left ear, steadily rising in an earnest crescendo. Coupled with the lingering sinus pressure, it was almost too much to bear. Copying the people nearest around him, Roxas raised his hands to his head, pressing them against both ears in a futile attempt to block out the incessant humming sound. He felt something moist meet the palm of his left hand and jerked it away, eyes widening as he noticed the thin trail of blood.

What…? What had just happened?

A moment later, the sky opened, showering what felt like tiny pin-pricks of hail all around him. Frightened, Roxas closed his eyes, hunching his shoulders, had enough sense to wonder how it could possibly be hailing on a warm, sunny day. Cracking an eye open just enough to inspect the ground by his feet, it took him a moment longer to realize the rain was, in fact, a deluge of shattered glass.

Hearing began a slow, filtered return to his right ear, but sound was still muffled, as though coming from a distance. As glittering glass continued to fall all around him, as dust and other street debris rose up to meet the macabre form of crystalline rain, Roxas was finally able to discern the screams and other noises of general mayhem.

And words, snippets of sentences, originating from those shouting at their companions, sometimes even at total strangers.

"Some sort of bombing…"

"Can anyone—"

"…was it terrorism?"

"—call the fire department."

Roxas shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. The pain in his ear intensified with the action, people blurring in and out of focus as he struggled to keep his wits about him. He was only half successful at stifling a low, strangled groan. He took an uncertain step forward, unsure which direction he'd been meaning to walk toward anymore.

"…at the World Trade Center buildings."

Roxas froze at the words, felt panic rise up into his throat before even being able to identify why the referenced buildings would even warrant such a reaction …trying to remember why they would hold any importance to him whatsoever. Still clouded, his mind finally caught up, offered him a definitive, horrifying answer. Another instant and he felt an acute sense of dread. Forming in the pit of his stomach, it spread up through his chest, threatening to close the already tensing muscles in his throat completely.

He stumbled forward blindly, not mindful of the glass crunching beneath his sneakers as he pushed his way opposite of the direction most of the crowd was now retreating to get away from the buildings. A few hands grabbed at him, but each time Roxas wrenched himself free, forced himself to keep going.

Hayner.

The glass had stopped falling but the sky remained hazy, a hint of orange in the sunrise that looked closer to ominous than natural cresting over the tops of buildings in the direction he was heading.

Pence.

He reached a crosswalk, noticed the light was red. Cars crowded the intersection, half of them turned off or stalled, their occupants either sitting, stunned and staring toward the Twin Towers in the distance, or already completely gone. Still holding a hand over his ear in what he already knew to be an ineffectual attempt at stemming the pain, Roxas dodged between the cars and across four lanes. One more block. He was almost there.

Olette.

This couldn't be happening. They had to be okay. Roxas fished his phone out of a pocket, this time hoping for notifications, for someone trying to reach him, even just a single message that would let him know his friends were safe.

There'd been no calls. No texts.

Nothing.

Roxas slowed his pace, continued to stare at his phone, as though he might be able to produce the desired message through sheer force of will. He took in the time, vaguely noted it was 8:55. Even if he had shown up on time this morning, Roxas realized, it was still too early for Hayner to have opted for a break.

This was taking forever. Feeling on the verge of near-hysteria, Roxas sucked in a breath of air, then coughed as the taste of dust hit the back of his throat.

"Roxas! Hey!"

Between the noisy chaos around him and his own impaired hearing, Roxas wasn't entirely sure he'd heard properly — not until he felt the familiar weight of someone's hand on his shoulder.

Relief rushed through him. Oh, thank god. Almost able to see Hayner in his mind's eye, Roxas turned around, preparing to grab his friend into a fierce, crushing hug. He stopped short when he saw who had actually called out to him.

"…Axel?" His voice was hoarse, but there was no misinterpreting the incredulity written plainly on his face.

"Where did you… I mean, what are you doing here?"

The man's expression was grim, eyes darting around them as though assessing his surroundings. Calculating something.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice rising to a range that was audible for Roxas above the rest of the pandemonium.

Yeah, well, neither should you, Roxas thought. Why would Axel even be in this area, if not to come visit him at work again?

That was probably exactly it, come to think. What other explanation could there possibly be?

Roxas followed Axel's gaze as he glanced down at his digital watch. It was 9:00 now exactly.

Axel looked at Roxas, jaw clenching as his eyes traveled to the hand still pressed crushingly up against Roxas' bleeding ear. "We need to get away from here. Now." He reached for Roxas' free arm, grabbed him by the elbow, tried to pull Roxas toward him and away from the smoking building just a few hundred yards away.

"Wait!" Roxas dug in his heels. "No! I can't. My friends—" He gave a slight tug but Axel didn't release his grip on Roxas' arm.

Instead, the man's fingers tightened, crushing, causing Roxas to gasp at the unexpected pain.

"We don't have time for this," Axel practically shouted, dark eyes narrowing into near-slits as he tried to pull Roxas closer. "We really, truly don't."

Without being fully aware of it, Roxas stared back at Axel, mouth slightly open, bewilderment flashing across his face. This… this was not anywhere near the demeanor of the person he'd first met at his work kiosk five days ago. This wasn't the good-natured guy he'd flirted with on Saturday night, who'd kissed him and set his nerves off in a pleasant flutter less than twelve hours ago. Something about Axel today was… off, even beyond the insanity of their current surroundings. Something about this entire encounter didn't seem quite right.

Hayner. Pence. Olette. The names kept repeating in his thoughts, a cruel, mocking reminder of the time he was wasting.

With renewed effort, Roxas jerked his arm out of Axel's grip, making note of the surprised expression that crossed the man's face for only a split second before he turned back in the direction of the the World Trade buildings and began running.

His friends needed him.

"Wait! Roxas!"

He barely registered Axel's words as he continued to sprint, each step taking him a little further away from Axel, toward the people who meant more to him than anything.

In his mind, he'd managed to get a substantial head-start, the panicked hysteria spurring him on at a speed that there was no way anyone not as desperate as he could ever hope to match. That was why it was such a surprise, such an unanticipated shock to his already overwhelmed system, when he was suddenly brought to a screeching halt by a pair of arms, grasping at his shoulders, yanking his hand away from his ear as his arms were wrenched unceremoniously behind his back at an awkward angle.

"Axel!" he bellowed. "Let. Go."

The man jerked him closer but didn't respond, Roxas continuing to struggle as he only half noticed a band, metallic and cold, being slipped over his right hand. Unable to turn to glare at his captor in this constricted position, Roxas looked across the street, toward the two buildings in front of him. So close. So impossible, futilely far away to actually reach.

Roxas looked up, expression crestfallen…

…and saw Axel hurrying toward him.

Disbelief colored his features, welled up in his throat. It quickly twisted, warping into a feeling of increasing incertitude.

If Axel hadn't grabbed him, then who…?

"Time?" Axel yelled, cutting through Roxas' jumble of thoughts, tone bordering on frantic. Roxas blinked, uncomprehending, before realizing Axel was looking well over his shoulder. Axel was talking to his captor.

"You took longer than anticipated," an unfamiliar voice responded, oddly calm for the destruction and panic surrounding them. "We have about thirty seconds."

Roxas watched, wide-eyed, as Axel wrung his hands. His gaze dropped to Roxas, brows knitting together as he seemed to be trying to decide on something.

Dark eyes rose up again to a point over Roxas' shoulder. "Leave him," he said, face contorting into a look of righteous ferocity. "We need to get out of here."

Roxas felt the pressure on his arms released, almost lost his balance without the unrelenting weight of the person behind him. He only had a second to note the retreating silhouettes of the two men before they vanished into what remained of the crowd, had even less time to make sense of the flash of pink hair he'd just seen running beside Axel.

Raising his arms to stretch his aching shoulders, Roxas caught a glimpse of the object that had been slipped over his hand. It was a band, polished and silver, with no apparent clasp or any other visible fastening — something that fit so snugly onto his wrist, there was no logical way for the pink-haired man to have been able to get it over his hand in the first place.

Bewildered now by more than just his throbbing head, Roxas reached out, touched the band with a few tentative fingers of his free hand.

The response was immediate. Roxas jerked his left hand back as the circlet began to pulsate a cerulean blue, sending an uncomfortable thrum of sensation up his arm and into his chest in the process.

His surroundings distorted as though he was looking out from the inside of a fish bowl. Afraid to touch the band again, still disoriented from the encounter with Axel and the other man, Roxas grabbed for his phone, the closest familiar object currently in his possession, and clicked through to the lock screen.

9:03.

Another explosion, this one so blindingly bright, Roxas was forced to close his eyes. He stumbled backward at the force of the blast, found his back solidly colliding into an invisible barrier. It took him another instant to realize that the debris that was raining down all around him again wasn't actually connecting with his head or any other part of him.

Frantically, he clawed at the nearly invisible confines, ran his hands around all sides before realizing he was trapped. The walls of the enclosure were warm but hard as steel. Impenetrable.

Even more frightening, whatever this was mostly wasn't even visible, giving him a clear view of the devastation taking place directly in front of him.

Smoke was billowing upward from both the North and South Towers, although it was the latter that Roxas found himself unable to take his eyes off of. Debris was falling from both buildings, from the distance appearing as mere specks, flailing erratically upon descent.

Something about it seemed unnatural, each one's spiraling plummet not indicative of objects that should be static, immobile.

His confinement shimmered, for a few seconds turned entirely sheer, before deepening in solid color in a measured, rippling wave. It was just enough time for Roxas to get one final view.

…just enough time to realize those specks twisting, spinning, spiraling toward the ground were people. Individuals who had jumped from the towers.

His enclosure shimmered once more, turned a solid concentrated grey, before erupting into a ball of opulent white, and jolting him straight off his feet.

Back hitting the unyielding wall behind him, mind still reeling at the horrors he'd just seen, this time it was Roxas who cried out.

It was Roxas who screamed.